


Pacific

by togetherboth



Series: Carmel [2]
Category: Martin and Lewis (RPF)
Genre: Are you okay?, Developing Relationship, Escape, Fantasizing, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hugging, Kissing, Love, M/M, Nature, Ocean, Running Away, Swimming, a certain amount of pining, being a bit scared of the ocean, hangovers, happiness, little bit of praise kink, more kissing, oh look more kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21963631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/togetherboth/pseuds/togetherboth
Summary: Having run away from the Paramount party, Dean and Jerry find themselves in one of Dean's favourite places in the whole world.A sequel to my other fic ‘Champagne’.
Relationships: Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Series: Carmel [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618237
Comments: 39
Kudos: 34





	1. Violet sky

It’s about an hour before dawn when they finally roll out of the car. They give the last bottle of champagne to their new friend Greg the Paramount Driver who leaves happy, his pockets fat with cash. Dean, hair dishevelled and jacket in hand, saunters across the sidewalk towards the beach. Drawn by the sound of the ocean, he picks his way through rocks and scrub before stopping by a twisted tree that’s been bleached and blasted silver by the elements. It seems like an impossibility, growing directly out of the sand. There’s a strangeness and a wildness to this place that he likes a lot. 

From the far edge of the wide, white beach he looks out over the water as it glitters in the moonlight. The air is soft and tastes of salt. The ground, heated by the previous day’s sun, is still radiating warmth but the breeze coming in off the sea is beautifully cool. It flutters his loose tie and finds its way in between his shirt and his back, lifting the damp material away from skin made sticky by the heat of the car. He watches the waves as they rush and crash, white horses tumbling in and then rearing back. The ocean music fill his ears and he finds a melody in the undertow. Better. He already feels better.

HIs partner comes up quietly behind him and stands very close. He rests his hot forehead on Dean’s shoulder, a single point of heat against the chill breeze. God, it feels good to be here. He tips his head back a little and feels his hair brush against his partner’s shoulder. Now he can breathe. The sky is a deep, icy violet still twinkling with fading stars. The moon is a crescent blade. The fine edges of the clouds are just barely starting to glow with pink morning light. 

The light here is like nowhere else; he can’t quite believe how clear it is and how beautiful. Everything looks narcotically sharp, especially since his bleary eyes had become so accustomed to clogged, smog-smudged LA. The ocean looks breathtaking. Dean figures the Pacific is welcome to his breath, if she wants it. His breath is full of Los Angeles, and Chicago, and before that New York and before that who can even remember? Layers upon layers of grime. HIs lungs _need_ scouring with this brutally clean salt air. 

The party seems like something from another lifetime now. His partner’s hangover and the weight of a stolen crystal ashtray in his pocket are the only evidence he has that it even happened at all. He took the ashtray as a gift for his partner. He’ll give it to him later and he’ll throw his head back and laugh and look at Dean like he’s a miracle, and Dean will want to kiss him and not kiss him. That’s just the way it goes. The heavy head resting on his shoulder rolls a little.

“Is it pretty out there?” A hoarse voice asks.

“It’s very pretty,” Dean replies, still transfixed by the rhythm of the waves. “Why don’t you see for yourself?”

“Hurts.”

Dean chuckles quietly, reaches back and gently pats his head.

“Ow,” says the voice.

They really shouldn’t drink champagne. His little partner adores it, and gets so sweet and giddy on the drunk. But boy, the hangovers are vicious. The head slowly lifts from his shoulder then comes back down, chin now hooked over his clavicle. Dean feels a tug on the back of his shirt where his partner’s hands are gripping it. He can picture the damp fabric twisting in his fingers and he wonders vaguely why he doesn’t just put his arms around him instead.

Dean turns his head slightly toward him and watches from very close up as a pair of red-rimmed eyes blink painfully open and squint at the horizon. There’s tiny gasp.

“It is beautiful, Paul.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He’s running out of words. He used up everything he had in him at the party, and knows fine well that it still won’t have been enough. He will have been considered aloof and ill mannered, yet again. Lucky, really, that he doesn’t care. Fuck ‘em. Doesn’t matter. He turns his face to the violet sky and feels the world turn. 

Reaching behind himself, he finds one of his partner’s hands and twines their fingers together, forcing him to let go of his shirt. He guides their arms around to the front of his body and wraps them both solidly around his own waist, lacing his fingers between his partner’s and pressing their hands both together against his hip.

As soon as he’s done it Dean understands why his partner wasn’t holding him like this before, even though he could feel how badly he wanted to. Held like this, Dean is the one who looks like he’s seeking comfort. Dean is the one who looks smaller, sheltered. Dean is the woman, the child, the queer. The beloved.

All that just from whose arm goes where. What a world. He knows that none of those vulnerable things are part of the part he plays; they are emphatically not his role in this thing that they are. Not his role, period. He has no business looking for comfort from anyone. He is muscle that sings. That’s all.

He can feel his partner’s chest rising and falling against his shoulder blades. His velvety hair is tickling Dean’s cheek and his thumb is tentatively stroking his hipbone, catching on his belt and the pleats in his pants. He’s reassuringly warm. Dean can just about see that his eyes have fallen closed again.

“Paul?” The voice in his ear is low and gentle, almost drowned out by the sound of the waves. His real voice.

“Hmm?”

“What are we doing in Carmel?”

“Standing by the ocean.”

“I mean, _why_ are we in Carmel?”

“We bribed Greg to drive us here, remember.” Dean could bite his own tongue.

“Don’t want to tell me, huh?”

“Mmm.”

“That’s okay.” He nuzzles Dean’s neck a little. “We can just be here because we’re here.”

Finally, Dean manages to tear his eyes from the horizon. He looks down at himself. Their arms twined together around his waist are the only thing he sees that he likes. These clothes are not really his. They’re okay, he guesses, but they’re not _his_. Whose are they? Some guy in showbusiness. Some guy people like to look at. A tie, for God’s sake. Why is he spending half his life in a tie? Makes no sense, none. 

Ah, he wants to get in the water. He’s sick of himself.

“I’m going in,” he says.

“What?!” Exclaims his partner, wincing at his own volume. “It’s a little cold for that, ain’t it?”

“It’ll soon warm up,” he shrugs and twists his neck around so he can see his face properly. “Coming?”

It’s not really a fair question. He knows that his partner’s not the strongest swimmer. He never got shown how when he was a kid, just picked up what he could all by himself. He knows he’s maybe even a little afraid of the open water. And he hates being cold; Dean’s hugged him and held him and rubbed his frozen hands back to life too many times not to know that. But still he hopes.

“Oh, um. Nah, I don’t think I’ll come in. I don’t feel too good, you know? With all the champagne. You go though.” He sounds just a shade disappointed at being left alone. Dean’s sure he must be worrying him. He’s barely moving, Dean can feel the tension all through his poor body. It’s as though their being here and holding each other like this has fried his circuitry and now he doesn’t know what to do with himself, but he doesn’t quite want to let go either.

Together their arms release Dean’s body so that he can turn around. The kid looks tired and rumpled, his bowtie still hanging loose around his neck and dark smudges under his eyes. Dean feels bad for him, and strokes the back of his fingers along his jaw, feeling the surprising rasp of stubble. It’s so easy sometimes to forget that this baby shaves. He strokes again. It’s nice.

“Will you be okay on your own?”

“Sure I will Paul! I’ll be fine, I’ll walk around a little.” He reaches for Dean’s chest but there are no lapels there for him to hold, so he ends up awkwardly grazing his knuckles down Dean’s shirtfront before letting his hands drop away. “Go on, go swim already. I’m sick of the sight of you,” he smiles.

Dean makes the claw with his hand and growls at him, gets an answering claw in return. Good. He turns and begins making his way down to the shoreline. The second time he looks back, his partner is scrambling enthusiastically over a rocky outcrop dotted with sunbleached trees, trying to get to a flat little promontory of slightly higher ground. 

The first time he looks back, he's frowning as he watches him leave.


	2. The sea otter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jerry takes a walk and Dean makes an ocean friend.

Jerry had intended to give his legs a good stretch after the long car journey; a walk by the beach to clear his head and work out the aches in his joints. It was a real nice big car they came in, but he’s a pretty tall guy so he still feels like he’s spent the last six hours folded in half. Despite the dim morning light he just about manages to get over the rocks that divide the beach from the path without breaking a leg, then sets off briskly down the narrow track. But before long he finds himself slowing with every step, like something’s dragging him back. He just doesn’t want to get too far away from Dean. His boy is in a strange mood. 

Dean had taken about all he could stand of LA, that’s for sure. For himself, Jerry will take everything LA is prepared to give him and more, with both fists and no limits. But he knows Dean is different. ‘Let’s sneak off,’ he’d said at the party, close and low. ‘Run away with me.’ The champagne bubbles in Jerry’s bloodstream had tingled and fizzed at that, rushing right to his head. It hadn’t been phrased as a question, and Dean didn’t say the word out loud, but everything apart from his mouth had said _please_. 

It’s not that they haven’t got commitments: they really, really have. Dean’s probably forgotten, but Jerry hasn’t. No club dates, thank God. That would’ve taken a lot of explaining. But other things. There’s going to be a very lonely journalist sitting in Ciro’s tonight, wondering why his interviewees haven’t shown up. He’s supposed to speak with some new scriptwriters tomorrow morning, and there’s a fitting with Sy in the afternoon. He should find a phone at some point and call Irving, let him know. He wonders how much stuff they’ll need to cancel before Dean’s okay again.… Ah, stop it. None of that matters here. He shoves his hands in his pockets and wanders on.

Dean’s done this before, the vanishing act. Sometimes with Jerry and sometimes without. The without worries him, even when he knows in his gut that Dean’s safe. He’s just glad to be invited along this time. But how could Dean look at him like that, like _please_? What please? He had to ask? How could he not know that Jerry’d go anywhere, do anything, throw over anyone, for him? _I know it_ , says Dean’s voice in his head. _I just don’t believe it_.

 _Shut up Dino_ , Jerry thinks back at him. _What’s so complicated about being loved?_

He’s a little higher up above the beach now. He’s followed the stony path along the coastline a short way, through all the scrubby greenish-greyish plants sprouting out between the rocks. There’s heather, he knows that one, and something he thinks might be called buddleia. Is it buddleia? The crazy big fronds of purple flowers that grow on the windowsills of abandoned buildings; butterfly bush, Grandma Sarah always called it. He likes that one. Seems like a courageous little bastard, growing everywhere it isn’t wanted. The flowers look indigo in the pre-dawn light. Wild and uncanny.

He’s reached a little manmade outlook built from honey-coloured bricks, which gives an elevated view of the best part of the beach. He stops for a moment and takes in his surroundings. It sure is beautiful here. Something at the apex of the outlook catches his attention: it’s one of those coin-operated machines for looking at the scenery, like big metal binoculars on a tall stand. It’s a little weather worn, green paint peeling here and there. He wonders if it still works.

Fishing around in his pocket he finds a loose coin, slots it in and steps up to the eyeholes. It is working! Blurry, but working. There are a couple of dials and a lever on the front and he quickly figures out how to adjust the lenses for a better view. A fierce-looking seagull bobbing about on the waves shifts into focus, clear as if it was right in from of his face. The rusty stand creaks a little as he scans along the horizon, finds a couple of boats to take a look at. Peachy. 

He sweeps the binoculars a little closer to the shore again and spots a slick, dark curve darting between the waves. A sea otter! Boy, a big one too. He recognises it immediately because last time they came to Carmel, Dean had been so enamoured by the sea otters. He spent hours just sitting and watching them as they sunned themselves on the rocks, occasionally dipping in and out of the ocean. Jerry had watched them with him for a little while, but they didn’t really do much and he soon started to get bored. He asked Dean what he found so fascinating about them and Dean had lifted his sunglasses, looked him right in the eye and said he envied their lifestyle. It was a joke really, if a slightly pointed one, but he suspects it might also be true. 

The sleek, rounded body of the sea otter swims off out of his field of vision and he tracks after it as swiftly as he can. When he finds it again it’s been joined by another body, just as sleek and graceful but a lot less furry. Dean is swimming alongside, keeping pace with the otter. Jerry nearly laughs out loud, he’s so delighted. He’s doing a perfect crawl, fast as anything, arms arcing out of the water in a spray of glittering droplets and then cutting back in with barely a splash. Jerry can’t help smiling as he watches him dart here and there, shadowing the otter. He really is like them, actually: totally at home in the water, kind of dangerous but sweet as hell at the same time. Jerry’s smile widens as he pictures Dean’s face when he tells him he’s finally got his wish and turned into a sea otter.

Dean, still following, executes a quick-as-a-flash complete turn and Jerry catches a split-second glimpse of his bare hip. It’s only then that it hits him that, of course, Dean is skinny dipping. And what he himself is doing right now is spying on his partner - who is naked and doesn’t know he’s being watched - through goddamn _binoculars_. Oh god, surely that makes him the very definition of a creep?

It doesn’t really feel like that though, despite some of his more, uh, intimate feelings for Dean. Maybe it’s because he’s already seen pretty much everything Dean’s got more times than he can even remember? They’re not exactly shy around each other. One of the many, many contradictions Jerry’s noticed about his complicated partner is that for all the money he spends on tailoring, he seems to dislike actually wearing clothes. It’s like the second he gets backstage he becomes allergic to his shirt. Which is fine by Jerry. Because yes, he loves his partner but he’s also brave enough to admit, at least to himself, that he thinks about him too. As in _thinks_ about him. About what it might be like. Admitting that to himself honestly makes the thoughts feel less dirty, somehow. Less furtive.

Like, for example, he loves that Dean has those deep grooves that curve from his hipbones all the way down his pelvis. Jerry has them himself, kind of, but he’s so fine boned compared to Dean, and lean rather than really muscular. So his are more like gentle dips while Dean’s look like they’ve been gouged out of rock. Jerry doesn’t get to see them all that often because even when he takes his shirt off Dean’s still got those fashionable high-waited pants that cover up all the good stuff, but that’s probably just as well. A fella could get a little obsessed with comparing the width of those grooves to the width of his thumbs, for example. Or his tongue. Stop it. 

Putting the lid back on that thought through sheer force of will, Jerry focuses his gaze through the binoculars again. Dean and the sea otter are now facing each other across about five feet of water. Every time the otter makes a little twitch or dip, Dean mirrors it. _Well goddamn_ , thinks Jerry. _He’s made friends with it_. 

It’s so rare to see Dean this unselfconscious, Jerry feels kind of privileged to witness it. It is spectacularly cute and, as attractive as Dean looks soaking wet, it is without a doubt one of the least cool things Jerry’s ever seen him do. The level of goof going on is absolutely off the charts, and Jerry’s never, ever going to let him live it down. Thinking about it now, Dean probably wouldn’t be all that embarrassed by Jerry’s little peeping tom act if he was just straight up ogling him; he definitely would be embarrassed if he knew the sheer intensity of wholesome fondness he’s inspiring in Jerry right now. 

As he watches, the sea otter jerks its head back and gives Dean a particularly indignant look, like he’s tired of this bothersome human’s silly behaviour. That makes Dean turn his face to the sky and start giggling uncontrollably. Jerry can’t hear it over the crashing of the waves, not at all, but he can see it and he knows that giggle intimately, he knows it in his brain and his heart and everywhere else. 

At that precise moment he catches one of those tiny, rare glimpses of that solitary little boy from Ohio, the one who’s happiest outdoors on his own. Who prefers animals to people because they don’t care what language you speak. Because they don’t care if you don’t speak at all. They don’t care if school bores you, or if a book about a noble black horse makes you cry. They just are with you. They let you be.

 _Fuck, I’m an idiot!_ Jerry thinks, the realisation hitting him squarely between the eyes. 

_He_ asked _me. He wanted me with him. This is everything to him and he wanted to share it. With me. And I said NO?! Because of a hangover and a little cold water? Joey Levitch, you’re a grade A idiot._ He starts to scramble back down the rocks to the beach. _Now, stop fucking about and get in the goddamn sea_.


	3. Feral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean stops swimming and Jerry shivers for more reasons than one.

The sea otter is gone now. Dean had been following him underwater for a little while, trying to copy the way he would dart around. Just for kicks, just to revel in feeling so free. After a while something else seemed to catch the otter's attention and off he dashed into the depths. Dean thinks maybe he caught onto the trail of a really big fish, and he approves of his decision to go after it. _Good for you buddy_ , he thinks, heading back up topside. He feels like a creature of the deep.

Breaking the surface, he treads water for a moment while he gets his bearings. Looking towards the beach, he notices that a second pile of clothes has magically appeared next to his own. _Did he come in after all?_ He pushes the wet hair out of his eyes, scans across the shoreline and there, right opposite the twisted tree, he spies his partner. _My other half_ , Dean thinks simply. _Oh, but look at him._

He’s standing almost chest deep in breakers and seems more than a little lost. His shoulders are hunched like the cold water has him all tensed up, and he flinches every time one of the slightly bigger waves hits him. He’s squinting out to sea in the half-light, but he’s looking too far into the distance and hasn’t spotted Dean yet. Something inside Dean starts glowing as he watches him. He sinks lower in the water, wanting to be allowed to watch for a few moments longer without being seen in return.

Look at him. This slender city boy, with his limbs like a sapling and his bonfire heart. Just _look at him_. Exposing himself to elements that scare him because he wants to be with his partner in the waves. Always trying. Dean’s got to take care of him or he’ll eat himself alive. This boy is drenched in salt-water and still not extinguished, just naked and shivering. His hair is wet and he’s very beautiful.

Dean can feel him loving him from here. It’s like standing right next to a furnace: terrifying in its ferocity, yet he still wants to move closer to the heat. It’s incredible to him that his presence can be so wanted, by anyone. More than wanted, even. Over the months and years they’ve been together the glowing thing inside him has been opening up like an oyster shell, prised apart by the persistent effort his partner has put into loving him in a way he can’t ignore. He keeps trying to slam it shut but it’s gone too far now, it’s beyond his control. He’s glimpsed the pearl inside, and he wants it.

 _I want to submerge with you,_ he thinks. _There are things I can’t say, but maybe on the ocean bed I can show you and you’ll understand. I know you’ll understand._

 _I just want you. That’s all._ he thinks. It’s his last coherent thought for some time.

Slipping entirely under the water he swims forward. He imagines himself rushing like a current, swirling towards the silvery body in front of him. He wants to flow right over him, twist around him and flood him with whatever this nameless-everything feeling is. He wants to pull him underwater so they can be alone, with just the white horses’ tails brushing over their heads. Where he can press his lips to his partner’s and breathe the air from his lungs and they can stay hidden for as long as they want. They can share oxygen until the sun comes up and sends its rays through the waves to wake them. 

Dean rises quietly out of the water directly behind his partner and presses a cold hand to his warm spine. He startles and swings around, his hands coming up protectively in front of his chest. They’re almost nose to nose. Dean smiles at him, a little out of breath. He’s so fucking happy to see him. His partner just blinks at him for a second before finding his voice.

“There you are! I, uh, I got a little sick of my own company on dry land so I thought I’d join you.”

Dean keeps smiling at him.

“You had a good swim bubbe?”

Dean nods.

“I saw you with the sea otter. He seemed like a nice fella.”

Dean nods again. His partner is lovely, and Dean’s going to need to touch him soon.

“I woulda joined you sooner, but I feel like a real fish out of water. A fish out of water!” He sounds nervous, he doesn’t need to be nervous. “Do you get it Paul…? Huh? Because the expression for feeling like you don’t know what you’re doing is ‘like a fish out of water’ and so, by way of a joke, I said - because you and me we’re in the ocean together both - I said ‘boy, I feel like a fish out of water’, meaning that I…” he crumples, “…oy vey.”

Dean tilts his head a little, smiles more and lets his gaze drift to his partner’s soft mouth. It occurs to him that the distance between their lips is like the distance between the sky and the sea: vast in one sense, but at the same time absolutely nothing at all. His partner’s still talking.

“I see what you’re thinking and you’re right. I shoulda said ‘out of my depth’, it’s a better jo-“

Dean tips forward and kisses his mouth. 

He stops talking then. Dean pulls back a tiny bit and notices that his eyes have gone very wide. The warming light is making them look lushly green and his lashes are spiked wet. Dean wants to let him know how pretty he looks and how much he loves him, so he holds those thoughts in his head while he cups the nape of his neck and kisses his mouth again, gently. Then he kisses just his lower lip. Then his mouth again, but for a little longer this time because it’s such a beautiful thing to do. Then he tilts his head and kisses the soft, shiverish place just below his ear. It tastes of salt and is delicious and he feels stubble against his tongue when he licks. His partner hasn’t said anything else so far, but he’s started making some sweet little whimpering noises, and his hands have come up to rest so softly against Dean’s chest. He takes that as a sign that he’s doing something good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just keeps getting longer, I'm so sorry! I think five chapters will do it though.


	4. Like this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has some thoughts, and Jerry appreciates the calming effect of cold water.

Dean very much wants more of his partner, wants to hold him closer. He’ll be warmer too, if he lets Dean hold him, and sheltered from the waves. So, with one hand still lightly holding the back of his neck, Dean slides his other arm around his waist. He spreads his hand at the small of his back, broad and gentle, and urges him closer. His partner sways towards him a fraction, but then plants his feet again and stands quite firm. His hands exert the tiniest bit of pressure on Dean’s chest, easing him back. Oh.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Bubbe, are you okay? You maybe didn’t notice so much but we’re, uh, we’re both kinda naked here. I don’t mind, y’know? I really don’t. But you maybe don’t want to get too close, um…”

Dean watches his face as his eyebrows draw together and he drags that angelic lower lip between his teeth. Dean hears his partner's voice whisper inside his head, _we shouldn’t_. He looks a little worried, a little nervous, and that’s the very last way Dean wants him to look. So, he forces himself to stop caressing the nape of his neck, shifts his hand and uses it to tweak his nose playfully instead, exactly the way he’s been it doing since they met. He gives his partner a small, bashful grin.

_It’s only me, remember. It’s just your Paul._

It works. The worried little knot between his partner’s eyebrows breaks apart and he smiles, glancing down and away; he giggles softly to himself, then looks back up at Dean through his thick lashes. There aren’t enough words for all the tender thoughts Dean has about his partner’s eyelashes, so he keeps them to himself. He just smiles back at him, strokes his fingertips along his rough jaw and kisses his mouth again but only softly, only once. This time there’s tentative pressure in return, and Dean’s heart soars. When he pulls back, the worried look is gone. It’s been replaced by something more present, more like curiosity. Even wonder, maybe. His partner’s eyes are glittering.

“Oh, Paul,” he says quietly. “What are you doing to me.” 

He asks it in the tone of someone who isn’t really expecting an answer, which is good because Dean can’t give him one. He can’t give him an answer to anything, not like that, not with his voice. All he has to offer is an ever-unfolding galaxy of silent questions, asked with his body. He’d gladly spend a lifetime asking things of his partner, if he’ll let him. He hopes he’ll let him. _This?_ he’d ask. _Like this? More? Like this, now? Deeper? Can you feel how much I love you yet?_

Dean tries asking his first question again, the question about holding each other closer, please. He slips both hands down his partner’s sides and under the water, framing his hips. His thumbs find the sweet little grooves there, rub, and hold. This time when he coaxes him nearer he comes happily, both arms settling around Dean’s neck just as Dean’s arms wind all the way around his waist. His partner pushes their foreheads together and closes his eyes, nudges Dean’s nose with his own. Dean can feel his exhaled breath sighing against his own lips. He looks at his partner so, so close and thinks that the affection he feels for him must be beaming out of him like a lighthouse, visible for miles around.

His partner’s face is serene, but Dean can feel that his lungs are heaving like bellows, having their own reaction to this new thing that they’re doing. Dean tries to encourage his partner to match the easy rhythm of his own breathing, to help him slow down and relax into their embrace. It feels like it’s working, at least a little.

As their breathing slows, Dean can feel how the rise and fall of his partner’s chest is making the lovely soft fur there brush against his own skin. He likes it, very much. He imagines stroking and petting his partner’s chest as he lies on his back, arms languorously stretched above his head, arching and purring like a spoiled cat showing its belly. Dean wants to spoil him, pleasure him. Dear god, it would be fun. And beautiful, and wild and all those other wonderful things, but above everything else he knows they’d have such unbelievable fucking _fun_. His imagination is sparkling with all the things he’d do to please his partner. Tickling his silky sides until he’s giggling and squirming; mouthing at his hipbones and his slender thighs until he’s hard from it; kissing the sweet dip of his bellybutton then easing his warm tongue inside while his partner laughs and pants and twists his fingers in his hair. He imagines his name as a delighted gasp, _Paul!_

He squeezes his arms a bit tighter and his partner shifts closer still. That’s better. That’s perfect. Now he can feel his tight little belly, with its delicate trail of fur leading down to…. Well, now. He supposes it should feel stranger than this, having his partner’s soft cock nestled against his own; it’s physically the closest they’ve ever been, after all. For all they’ve bared their skin together in countless numbers of anonymous dressing rooms and locker rooms and hotel rooms, they’ve never allowed this kind of touching to happen before. But it doesn’t feel strange, or even all that unfamiliar. Not at all. It’s just a new bit of his partner to love.

As they shift and settle together, his partner makes a low sound like a very soft, breathy whine. Dean wants to chase that sound, wants to taste it in his mouth. His partner moves his head away slightly and lets it loll all the way back so that he’s facing the stars, arms still wrapped around Dean’s shoulders. Dean makes the most of it, leans forward a little and starts kissing his exposed throat.

“Oh boy, Paul,” he breathes, quiet and low. “Better be glad the ocean’s so cold, or we would’ve had ourselves quite a situation here. _Goddamn_ , you feel so good.”

He brings his head up again and Dean reluctantly stops kissing. His partner is looking at him intently, eyes skimming over his face so lovingly he can almost feel it. He buries one hand gently in Dean’s hair and strokes it through, a blissful look on his face. Dean’s curls are tangled with saltwater and the breeze is drying the ends into little tufts; his partner sets to work slowly smoothing them out with his long, careful fingers. Dean smiles at him and closes his eyes. The gentle stirring of his hair feels so nice.

“You look just perfect here, bubbe,” his partner says finally, thoughtfully tilting his head ever so slightly to one side. He trails his cold fingertips across Dean’s brow. “My nature boy,” he smiles. 

For a few long moments he seems content just to look at Dean, gazing at him almost like he’s searching for something. 

“You look like a weight’s been lifted off you. Do you… do you feel a little better now?”

Dean opens his eyes and finds his partner’s green gaze already on him, questioning. By way of an answer he nods emphatically and lets himself be drawn back to his partner’s beautiful mouth, which opens a little as he kisses it. He’s done his best to keep his partner warm, but they’ve both been standing still for quite a while now and he can feel the body in his arms beginning to shiver in earnest. Dean nuzzles his mouth close to his ear.

“Cold?”

“Oh!” His partner draws back a little way so that he can look him in the eye, a surprised smile on his face. “He speaks! I was starting to think the Little Mermaid bit was permanent.” Dean chuckles quietly and shakes his head, but he really, honestly means it when he says,

“Sorry.”

“Aw no, Paul, no ‘sorry’. You got nothing to be sorry over. C’mere.” He hooks his jaw over Dean’s shoulder and hugs him fiercely. “Anyway bubbe, you’re the sexiest mermaid ever to come out of Ohio. I mean it sincerely, okay?”

Dean laughs and kisses the side of his velvety head; he hugs back hard. Stroking one big hand up and down his partner’s spine as they hold each other tight, he feels the moonlit waves, calmer now, lapping against his back.


	5. Connect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The greatest thing you'll ever learn.

They let the white horses carry them inland. Jerry walks backwards out of the ocean, leading Dean by the hand. Dean’s talking normally now, which is to say barely at all, but that’s just fine. Their two piles of crumpled clothes await them, damp from the sea spray. They shake out what they need and make the best of it. Their undershirts get sacrificed to have something to dry themselves off on and when they’re done they sit cross-legged and close on the fine sand in just their boxers, letting the breeze finish the job.

Dean cups the side of his hand into a curve and runs it firmly over Jerry’s head, slaking the water out of his hair while using his other hand to shield his eyes from the drips. The pressure of Dean’s big warm hand moving over his scalp gives Jerry the shivers in the nicest way. His shoulders come up and he squirms a little, so Dean keeps on doing it long after the drops have stopped falling.

Jerry makes an elaborate pantomime out of taking locks of Dean’s hair and trying to wring them dry, making it look like agonisingly hard work when really all Dean can feel is the gentlest tugging sensation. Then he ruffles his fingers through the top, sending damp curls tumbling into Dean’s eyes. He screws his face up and laughs,

“Ay ay ay, enough already!”

Rooting through his pile of clothes, Jerry finds the pocket square from his jacket and shakes it out with a flourish. He kneels up in front of Dean and carefully arranges it around his head the way a lady would wrap her long hair up in a towel. Dean indulges him, looking out impassively from beneath the red and white polka dots. He’s got his long-suffering face on, but his mouth’s twisting like he’s trying not to laugh. Jerry sits back on his heels and admires his handiwork silently for a few long moments before announcing, with all due consideration, 

“It suits you, bubbe.”

Dean responds by shaking his head like a wet dog, sending the handkerchief flying and flinging drops of water all around. Jerry puts his hands up in defence and turns his face away,

“Aargh! No Paul, it’s cold!”

Dean stops and grins at him.

“Get dressed then, if you’re cold.”

“I don’t wanna. I’m tired.” He flops back on the sand and throws one crooked arm over his eyes with immense drama.

Dean just crawls over to him and quietly fits himself all snug along Jerry’s right side. He nestles his head into his shoulder and slides his arms right around his middle, cuddling close. It’s like when they were holding each other in the water but even better, because now he can really feel the texture of Jer’s skin, his hair, the lovely heft of him.

“Warmer?” He asks.

“Uh-huh,” Jerry replies, a bit lost for words. He tentatively puts his hands on Dean’s back and rubs, strokes sweeping patterns onto his shoulders and his neck, all the way down the arm that’s wrapped around his waist. They lie there in silence for a while, Dean with his eyes closed and Jerry gazing up at the lightening sky, hoping he isn’t going to wake up and find that the night has all been a dream. 

Dean can feel Jerry’s heart beating beneath him, as slow and sure as his own. A lovely thing. He feels the opposite of lonely, whatever the English word for that is.

Lying under the the stars, listening closely as their heartbeats blend with the sea and the sea turns everything into one song, Dean feels more a part of the universe than he has since he was a kid. Back then he used to play in the weeds of the Ohio River and the make-believe wilderness of Beatty Park, and even so much as _seeing_ a real live horse was enough to make his heart soar. The river cut through the earth, and the earth fed the horse, and the horse galloped beneath him, and he felt the wind streaming through his hair, and everything fitted and worked together, whole.

This feeling of connection never usually comes over him when he’s around other people. They don’t connect. No one else seems to function in quite the same way that he does, he’s come to realise. Jerry doesn’t either, really, but somehow it doesn’t matter. They are the same in their differentness. They connect. He’s such a city boy too, his partner; neon lights where his nervous system should be. Yet they understand each other’s hearts. Dean can’t fathom it, but then, why should he? Not his job to understand these things. He just goes with the flow, minds his own business and watches the world turn.

Back in the early days he tried to dismiss it, this connection with Jerry. Treat it lightly and brush it off. Pretend this brand new feeling was just the result of having his ego stroked by the adoration of a sweet kid with a crush. The kid himself was irrelevant, surely. It was just the seductive power of his attention that was making Dean feel like king of the world. Could’ve got that from anyone.

Except. Except, it wasn’t long before he found himself mid-song, mind wandering, scanning over the heads of the crowd for a certain familiar face; hazel eyes and a goofy grin underneath that goddamn ridiculous haircut. It wasn’t long before he found himself backstage, anticipating long cool fingers over his eyes and “guess who, Paul?” as though anyone else in the whole world called him that. Before he found himself feeling a tiny pang of disappointment at every unadorned dressing room mirror. 

After that he soon found himself sharing cigarettes and sandwiches and stories, and buying more halva in one week than he ever had in his life. And the work got bigger and bigger, and they got closer and closer and closer, and somehow he was still kidding himself. 

It wasn’t until last night, when the desire to grab Jer by the hand and just _run_ overtook him, that he realised: doesn’t make you any bigger or stronger or manlier because you won’t admit it. Just makes you a liar, is all. You can say you don’t love him all you want, doesn’t make it true. It’s not up to you. Either God put the love there or He didn’t. Stop pretending it’s a decision.

“Paul, you sleeping?” Jerry’s voice cuts through his drifting thoughts. Dean lifts his head, rests his chin on Jerry’s chest and looks warmly up at his partner. Jerry crooks one arm behind his own head to raise it up a little. “Oh, there you are,” he says, smiling. He strokes the side of Dean’s face with the backs of his fingers. 

“The stars sure are pretty here, Paul,” he says, looking him right in the eye.

“Mm-hmm, sure are,” Dean replies, gazing right back. Jerry flushes very slightly, lets his head drop back down and turns his eyes to the sky.

“We can see ‘em much better here than in LA, boy. This close to dawn even.” Dean feels him sigh. “Do you know the constellations? I don’t know any.”

“Nah, not really.” Dean shifts over onto his back, getting comfy with his head still resting on Jerry’s shoulder. “Bill learned them all when we were kids, but I could never remember the names. Uh, that one’s the Little Dipper, I think.” He draws a crooked line with his finger, joining up the stars. “See there, with that kind of, uh, line of four for a handle?” 

“Oh yeah, I see it. Huh.” Jerry pauses for a moment, considering this new information. “Hey Paul?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“I found you a house.” He points into the sky. “Those ones all together, see? With a point for the roof.”

“Oh yeah, I got it. How much you asking for this prime piece of real estate then Jer?”

“I’ll get onto my cousin on Jupiter, he’ll make you a deal.”

“Okay, sure. I’ll wait for a wire.” Dean interlaces his fingers contentedly over his belly and looks deeper into the stars. “I got a horse right over there. Just outside my new house.” He points. “That triangle’s his head, see, and there’s one leg and there’s the other.”

“Paul.” Jerry squints up at it, tilting his head a little. “I think your horse and your house are joined together. Ain’t that the same star right there?”

“Call it a horse and wagon then, it’s fine.” Dean casts around, waiting patiently for another shape to form. “Hey, I see Jimmy Durante! There, see that one…” he inscribes a long arc in the sky, “…aaaaaand that one.”

“That ain’t Jimmy Durante, that’s you with your old nose.”

“Hey!” Dean sits up abruptly, turns around and pokes Jerry hard in his side. Jerry flinches and laughs and tries to roll away, but that just cannot be allowed. Dean grabs hold of him and firmly puts him flat on his back, swings a leg over and sits on his thighs. All the while Jerry is convulsed with laughter and crying out,

“No, no, no! Paul! I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it, Paul! Argh!” It’s in vain though, because it only takes a matter of seconds to grab both of Jerry’s flailing arms, then pull them up above his head and trap his wrists against the sand. 

Jerry’s still trying to get out of the hold, but pinned as he is at hips and wrists there isn’t much he can do but wriggle uselessly and flex his spine, still giggling like a maniac. Dean is enjoying himself enormously. He never uses his full strength on Jer and he isn’t about to start now, but he absolutely loves playing with him like this. He’ll ease off a little, just enough to let him think he has a chance of getting the upper hand, but then at exactly the second he thinks he might get free Dean’ll grip harder, heavier, let him feel how thoroughly he’s been overpowered but, at the same time, how safe he is. Because his Paul’s got him, and he can yell and thrash and go as crazy as he wants and still be absolutely certain that nobody’s letting anybody go. 

There’s an intoxicating new dimension to this roughhousing now, though. Dean leans into his hands a little more, pushing Jerry’s wrists further into the sand. He looks down at his partner and it hits him that he knows, for sure, that he won’t ever, ever get his fill of this. Being together like this. It’s all he really wants. Jer’s compact chest is still heaving with the exertion of trying to get free, and the way he’s arching his back is pulling his sweet little belly taut. Dean knows how ticklish he is there and he’s so, so tempted. He resists though, keeping his hands firmly where they are: wrapped around Jer’s delicate wrists. 

Sand is catching in Jer’s damp hair and clinging to his skin in patches; he’s still wriggling, although now it’s more like he’s just feeling his boundaries rather than making an honest attempt to escape. His eyes are bright and he’s beaming up at Dean like he hung the moon.

“I’m sorry Paul. I didn’t mean it, what I said about your old nose. Forgive me, bubbe. Be nice.”

“Hmmmmmm.” Dean gives a low growl, feigning indecision.

“Aw, c’mon Paul. Look, you can stay mad at me, okay, that’s fine. _Or_ you can forgive me, and make nice. And…” he’s looking up at Dean all wide eyes and innocence, “and maybe you could kiss me again, huh? Just a little? Wouldn’t that be better? I am sorry, I promise.” 

Dean can actually feel his resistance melting. It was situated somewhere in the region of his spine, it seems. Who knew?

“No more wisecracks?” He asks.

“No more, none.” Jerry presses his lips firmly together, miming silence. Dean has one more little cherry bomb in his armoury. He thinks, _why the hell not?_ and deploys it:

“You promise you’ll be a good boy?”

There it is. There’s something about those two words that always, always does Jerry in. _Good boy_. Dean’s seen it many times before: he gets this vacant expression, like he’s blissfully lost just for a second. Privately Dean calls it The Look, and adores it. He'd love to know where he goes in that second. Maybe now, given time, he’ll be able to find out. 

The Look flits across Jerry’s face just as Dean had expected, but this time he discovers that he’s in the ideal position to feel the full-body shudder those magic words send through his partner too. It’s quite something. The reaction is so fleeting, but it leaves a subtle change behind in its wake. There’s a hint of desperation to Jer now. His breathing’s very slightly ragged and he twists his wrists in Dean’s grip. His eyes have gone glassy and dropped to Dean’s mouth.

“Gimme a kiss, Paul. Please. I’m want one.”

“ _You’re want one_? What kind of English is this?”

“I don’t care. Gimme kiss.”

Dean really can’t be expected to resist him any longer, so he gives in with an indulgent sigh. It’s beyond wonderful to feel so wanted, especially by this particular, beautiful boy.

“Your wish is my command, oh Son of a Seahorse.” 

Jer laughs at that. Dean leans down and nudges his nose lightly with his own, because he knows Jer likes that and he wants to kiss him while he’s smiling. His eyes are closed in anticipation, lashes lying softly against his cheekbones like two dark feathers. His lips are curved into a smile and already slightly parted when Dean gently kisses them, only for a second. He changes the angle of his head a little and does it again, for a fraction longer this time, until he feels an answering pressure. He moves back a hair’s breadth, just enough to give himself room to speak.

“More?”

“Mmmore,” Jerry answers, eyes still shut. 

Dean couldn’t deny him anything anymore, even if he wanted to. He brushes his lips against Jerry’s again and feels him take a tiny gasp of breath. Dean plays with him, draws him in with soft little kisses, coaxing his head up, making him crane his neck to reach Dean’s mouth, holding back, holding back. When he thinks Jer’s had about as much teasing as he can take, only when he’s whining softly at every withdrawal, only then does he press him back down into the sand and kiss him properly, with as much desire as he can put into his mouth. 

He uses his own lips to part Jerry’s, luxuriously slow. He runs his tongue along the delicate inner edges, and is rewarded with a lovely, airy _unh_ sound breathed into his mouth in return. So sensitive, his boy: lights up when he’s touched right. Dean kisses him deeper, harder and can practically feel the nerves shivering through his skin. He’s going to have to be so careful and find all the perfect ways of touching him, because he just knows that if he gets it exactly right then, Jesus Christ, the response will be transcendent.

He can’t hold this position for much longer though. His back’s aching where he’s supporting himself arched over his partner, it’s difficult to balance with his knees in the sand and he’s dying to free up his hands for more touching. More everything. He’s trying to figure out what to move first without accidentally crushing Jerry, but the kissing is making it impossible to think straight. 

The ocean breeze picks up a little and blows a stronger current over their already chilled skin. It reminds Dean that even though he loves the sea and the early dawn light beyond all measure, and even though he’s so hungry for his partner right now that he would gladly just drop down against him and _grind_ , they could in fact be doing all of this, and much more, in an honest-to-God real actual bed. In a nice hotel. With open windows overlooking the ocean. And maybe a deep, inviting bathtub that’s big enough for both of them even accounting for Jer’s endless legs. And rumpled white sheets and downy pillows. And a warm, dry, relaxed partner who wants him, sprawled out and radiating a voluptuous sort of contentment. He’s getting carried away, but he wants all that. Pretty badly too.

He gentles the kiss, stroking the silky inside of Jer’s mouth with his tongue as he pulls back. He eases their parting with soft bites to his swollen lips, until their mouths finally, reluctantly separate. Jerry looks utterly dazed.

“Mmmmm, Paul.” He sounds so fuzzy it almost makes Dean laugh.

“You okay?”

“My brain stopped working,” Jerry slurs. “S’nice." 

Dean finally releases his wrists and slowly sits up straight. He feels his back crack into place but he’s careful not to move around too much as he’s very aware that he’s still straddling his languidly aroused partner. He might like to tease, but he’s not cruel. 

Jerry stretches his arms out but leaves them lying above his head, not straining for freedom now, just relaxed on the sand with his fingers softly curling in toward his palms. He blinks a few times and seems to wake up a bit more.

“No more kissing?”

“Just for a little while.” 

He carefully rolls off, then stretches out on his back along Jerry’s side again. He broke the spell of the kiss, sure, but everything still feels very close to the surface and he can’t bear to stop touching his partner completely. Jerry brings one arm down and starts idly playing with his hair. He’s silent for a little while, but Dean can feel that there’s something he wants to say. It doesn’t take long.

“Paul?”

“Mmm?”

“I was just thinking about, uh. When we were in the ocean together, you know? And there was a minute when you were, well.” He hesitates for a second, trying to find the right words. “You were there in front of me but you looked so far away. And I was thinking: where’d you go? I mean, you were looking right at me, but you were somewhere else.”

“When?”

“In the ocean.” He rakes his fingers through Dean’s hair. “When I was fixing this curly mop of yours, or trying to anyhow. Remember?”

“Oh,” Dean casts his mind back, recalls cool fingers stroking his brow. He remembers. “You called me your nature boy.” He cranes his neck round and grins up at Jerry. “I liked it.”

“You did? Oh.” Jerry has to glance away for a second. “That’s good,” he says, smiling down at Dean a little bashfully. He resumes stroking the hair back from his face. “So, where were you, my nature boy?” He gently taps his finger against Dean’s temple.

“Well, I…”

“Hmm?”

“I was thinking about you.”

“Me?” 

Dean glances back up at Jerry, who looks a bit dumbfounded. Dean nods. He hoists himself up, rolls over and plants his elbows in the sand, letting them take his weight. He wants to be able to see Jerry while he says this.

“Touching you.”

“But I was right there and, if I recall correctly, you _were_ touching me. A whole lot of you was touching me.”

“Mm-hmm. But not the way I wanted to.”

“Not the way… uh… so how _did_ you…” Jerry’s mouth falls open a little and his eyebrows go up. Dean leans over solicitously close, like he’s got a secret to tell him.

“Here,” he whispers, and with one finger he gently draws a line down Jerry’s hipbone, all the way down as far as he can reach into the hollow that disappears beneath the low waistband of his boxers. He hears his breath hitch. 

“Here,” he slowly traces the same finger over the soft skin of Jerry’s inner thigh, so smooth and pale; so unlike the rest of this familiar golden body that Dean loves to distraction. He pictures himself following the path of his fingertip with a trail of tiny butterfly kisses and how, if he _were_ to put his mouth there, the scratch of his stubble would quickly rub the tender skin pink. Jer’d be so sensitive, Dean would barely need to breathe against his tingling skin to have him blushing and whimpering. 

His mouth is starting to water. He swallows and ignores it, concentrating instead on his partner’s quickening breath, on how even a touch as feather-light as this one is making his muscles twitch and his thighs shift almost imperceptibly apart. He moves his hand to Jer’s navel and circles the pretty little dip with his fingertip. 

“Here.” He says, the tiniest crack in his voice. He’d only meant to tease, but he finds he’s played himself: he just can’t bear to hold back any more. He’s got to taste him again, just a little, just enough to tide him over till they’re somewhere private. He bends his head and kisses Jer’s soft tummy.

He hears him gasp out a staccato little, " _Ah!_ ", and feels him start to tremble. He remembers how deliciously ticklish his partner is and, oh God, it’s all too much. He can feel his control slipping, and his control _never_ slips. But there’s so much to see and feel and taste, and his partner’s so beautiful and so beautifully responsive for him, just for him. Even these touches, as delicate as Dean’s capable of making them, have got him squirming in the most gorgeous way, making the sweetest little gasps. Jer’s whole body is humming with pleasure and he’s barely begun. Dean’s animal brain is taking over. _Fuck the hotel room,_ he thinks. _Fuck propriety, fuck Paramount, fuck everything. I_ want _him. He wants me. That’s a fucking miracle,_ he thinks. _We should just have each other right here ._

Jerry’s clutching the back of Dean’s head, raking through his hair seemingly without even noticing, his expression’s gone so blissed out. Dean's mapping his belly with soft, sucking kisses, slowly moving lower and lower, his hand slipped fully under the waistband of Jer’s boxers with every intention of sliding them off. Somewhere, far away but not _very_ far away, the sharp bark of a dog rings out across the beach.

“Mitzi!” Calls a distant voice. “Mitzi, not too far now!” 

Dean stops dead mid-kiss. His shoulders drop in disbelief.

“Fuck.” He says, succinctly.

Jerry’s already struggling to sit up, eyes enormous.

“Aw, shit! That sounded close Paul. Did that sound close to you? Shit! I think it sounded close.”

“I know you love the beach my baby,” trills the voice again, “but no leaving Momma behind!”

“Shit! Paul!” Jerry hisses. He leaps up and starts rummaging through his pile of clothes. A very creased pair of pants emerges and he begins frantically pulling them on. “We gotta get out of here, come on! Ow, fuck!”

Dean glances up just in time to see his partner struggling to fasten his zipper over what looks like a pretty damn impressive erection. _I did that_ , he thinks proudly. He’s still sitting on the sand himself, trying to come to terms with this astonishingly bad piece of luck. Watching Jer hop about and curse makes it a little easier to see the funny side, he guesses. _Plus_ , he thinks with a private smile, _there’s always that hotel room. That bathtub, that bed_. Damn, he needs a cigarette though.

“Come on Paul, what are you waiting for?” Jerry cries. He’s pulled on a shirt, cuffs flapping and collar crooked, and is trying to cram his sockless feet into his shoes. Dean can clearly see that it’s his shirt Jerry is half wearing, but the thought makes him feel a bit warm in the belly so he doesn’t say anything. Jerry picks up Dean’s pants and throws them at him. Dean slowly pushes himself up to standing and pulls them on. He has some trouble in the zipper area himself but thankfully Jerry’s too preoccupied to notice. 

“Jer, that broad sounds at least two, three hundred years old. She’s not getting here any time soon. Take it easy.” he says. The effect this has on his partner is absolutely nil.

“We gotta move, boy!” He says as he flaps around gathering up their remaining clothes. “Come on, Speedy!” He heads off for the rocks at the edge of the beach.

“Alright, alright.” Dean pulls Jerry's shirt and his own jacket on without buttoning either and decides to forgo the shoes for as long as he possibly can. He likes the sand under his bare feet. He takes one last, long look at the ocean, sighs and then turns and strolls toward where his laughing partner has already scampered halfway up the rocks, turned and reached out a hand to him.

_Epilogue_

At precisely 6.05am Mrs Alvin Rothman, distinguished resident of Carmel by the Sea, arrives at her very favourite spot on the beach: a little sandy pocket right by an extraordinary twisted tree. She and her faithful toy poodle are, as is perfectly usual, the only living things to be seen on the beach at this early hour of the morning unless you count seabirds, which Mrs Alvin Rothman most certainly does not. 

There is, however, something a little different this morning. Her attention is caught by a scrap of red fabric lying in the sand. Deftly hooking it up with her walking stick, she finds that it is a slightly damp red and white spotted handkerchief, of the type worn by gentlemen in their breast pockets. Mrs Alvin Rothman scans the beach, perplexed, but can find no trace of any person to whom such a thing might belong. _What a peculiar trinket to find on the beach,_ she thinks. _I wonder how on earth it came to be here._ The thing seems quite new though, and she finds that it makes really quite an adorably jaunty kerchief for Mitzi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, thank you for sticking with me through this thing! It just grew and grew. Plus there's already a sequel in the works, so it hasn't stopped growing yet. Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and comments, it truly means the world to me.


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